Too Late
by Jambammer
Summary: John was too late. But that day, so was everyone else. A series of oneshots about a picture spoiler that's been going around the net. Don't want to know, don't read.
1. John

A/N: Just a quick fic to get me into the Sherlock writing mindset again. Based off the pictures going around the internet.

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><p>John was too late.<p>

His heart had raced the entire way to the scene, right from the moment he had received the text.

_This is it. The only way. – SH_

John had known exactly what it meant, but he hadn't wanted to believe it. For months, his roommate had been obsessing over how to take down Moriarty. The conclusion that he reached was that it simply wasn't possible.

Not as long as he was able to escape alive, that is.

John swallowed, but his mouth was unbearably dry.

Sherlock had realized that, in proper dramatic fashion, in order to defeat him, _he'd_ have to die as well.

Lestrade had called the doctor's cell the moment the commotion began. Rooftop, two figures spotted, one matching the description of Sherlock. He'd gotten the text only moments before. There wasn't any doubt about what was going on.

No wonder Sherlock had been so eager to send John out for groceries. It wasn't for the detective to be able to avoid the mundane task; it was to stop the doctor from stopping _him_. Because they both knew that John would have, or he would have died trying.

The cab pulled up, and the crowd of people gathered and the ambulances parked and open made John's stomach turn.

The rooftops were bare.

As he slammed the cab door, one horrid sight met his eyes.

Mycroft stood, looking calm and collected yet utter devastation written deeper into his face.

There was Sherlock, being taken to one of the waiting ambulances. His face was bloodied, and his neck was at an odd angle. No one was rushing, other than to get him away from the crowd. He wasn't strapped down, and no effort was being made to treat any possible injuries. There simply wasn't any reason to, not anymore.

He felt the nausea rising and burning up his throat as his whole body quaked.

John was too late.


	2. Lestrade

Lestrade was too late.

He had arrived on scene in time to ward off the morbid spectators and send officers into the building, but they hadn't been in time to stop the two from falling - or jumping, it wasn't clear which.

He watched the body as it was loaded into the back of the waiting ambulance, numb with the knowledge that he had known the man. He saw death all the time, but it was harder – _so much harder_ – to keep a professional face on when it was someone he had known and worked with. No amount of training could truly prepare a person, especially when they had witnessed the cause of death as well.

Especially when he had been warned it was coming.

The ambulance doors slammed shut, taking Sher-the _body, _away. An ashen faced and trembling John stood not far away, looking desperately lost. It had been a while since he'd seen death, but this wasn't a death that was supposed to have happened. In war, death is expected. Though, the Detective Inspector supposed this was a sort of war. Maybe, it was expected. But it could have been prevented.

_He_ could have prevented it if he had only listened to the worried doctor.

John had approached him months back about Sherlock's growing obsession. Sherlock becoming obsessive really wasn't anything new, but Lestrade had promised to find something to distract the consulting detective, for a little while anyways.

The blonde haired man was being interviewed by Sergeant Donovan. Lestrade noted that while John looked sick, and grief stricken, he didn't look surprised.

He couldn't help but feel guilty.

He had meant to do it, he had. He had case files on his desk that he had been meaning to deliver straight to 221b Baker Street. However, something always came up whenever he meant to actually take it over. This whole event could have been avoided if he had just _tried_ to talk some sense into Sherlock, or gotten him to work with the team.

But now, the brilliant mind was dead, and wouldn't ever work with his team again.

Lestrade was too late.


	3. Mrs Hudson

A/N: The next one's my favourite so far - I still have the last two to write. Reviews would be lovely :D Also, since this is another of my depressing stories, I reccomend you all go read Sherlock and the Child. Sherlock, plus a stubborn 3 year old, minus John around for help, equals...

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><p>Mrs. Hudson was too late.<p>

She had walked into the upstairs flat to talk to Sherlock, only to discover that both he and John were out. John she knew had left – she'd heard him complaining about always doing the shopping as he thumped down the stairs (no wonder she couldn't get anyone to stay in the basement flat for more than a month) and slammed the door shut behind him. This wasn't anything new, they argued from time to time, but then, so had she and her late husband in their early years of marriage.

She was a bit concerned about the rent being a bit late. John had paid her on time – the dear was nearly never late, or apologized profusely if it was (as if she'd evict them) – but Sherlock hadn't. The landlady really wasn't _too_ surprised. Whenever Sherlock got caught up in his cases, he seemed to forget the rest of the world around him existed. She had decided to pop up to give him a friendly reminder, and a nice cup of tea.

Her friend, Mrs. Turner, often scolded her about mothering Sherlock. But if she didn't, who would? Mrs. Hudson just couldn't imagine how he had managed to live on his own. Honestly, without her and John, she was quite sure the poor boy – well he wasn't really a boy – would die of starvation.

Perhaps she mothered them because she saw them both as the sons she never had. John was the sweet considerate boy who would help out with chores and Sherlock… well Sherlock was the odd, but brilliant son who always needed someone to keep an eye on him to be sure his chemistry set didn't blow up the kitchen.

She really didn't feel like replacing the stove _again._

She looked around the empty flat. Strange she hadn't heard him leave. Setting the cup down on the kitchen table and tutting over the mess of equipment, she decided she'd try again a bit later.

Mrs. Hudson was too late.


	4. Sally

Sally was too late.

She had thought she'd be able to make it, if she ran fast enough – and she was fast. She'd always been. Even as a child, all those trophies from various races proudly out on display in her bedroom, hoping to attract attention from her father who favoured his older, athletic sons. It hadn't worked, but she _had_ been fast.

But she was never faster than when she was running to help, or get help for a friend.

And Sherlock _was _a friend. At least, he had been.

She took the steps two at a time – she had to get to the roof!

They'd met in university, while she had been still deciding what to do with her life. He was handsome, in a sort of odd way. It was his mind that truly attracted her, but then, she'd always had a thing for men who were clever. Also men who ignored her, or who were off limits. At the time, Sherlock Holmes fit into both catagories. He ignored her as he ignored virtually everyone else, and he had a sort of air about him that made him unapproachable.

That didn't stop her from trying.

He hadn't taken to her at first, but she proved her worthiness to him by analyzing a crime scene photo he was looking at in a book. Even though he pointed out all the _obvious_ details she had missed, she could tell he was impressed, even if he didn't want to tell her so. He started giving her an acknowledging nod when he saw her, and it eventually became a polite hello, and before either knew it, they were in constant communication. Well, as constant as communication with Sherlock Holmes could be.

She'd fancied him – yes, she, Sally Donovan, had fancied Sherlock Holmes, but she would take that secret to her grave.

Eventually she realized that he wouldn't ever be interested in her the way she wanted, and while naturally that revelation stung, they remained friends.

Eventually, she wasn't sure when exactly, a tension set in. It was probably after she'd recieved a warning from the University after sneaking a man who didn't attend into her room for the night. She had made the mistake of confiding in Sherlock. At first she saw his reaction as possible jealousy, but eventually realized that he was _disappointed_ in her, as though he'd expected her to be above all "that nonsense."

Her breath stuck in her throat. The stairs seemed so endless.

The big falling out happened when one day he straight out accused her of always needing the attention of a man, be it her many tumultuous relationships or one night stands. He called her pathetic, and "just like everyone else."

She had vowed never to speak to him again, though she had called him many things in return.

She wasn't particularly pleased when life connected them again years later. It was after this that she began noticing just how strange he really was, or rather, _caring_ how strange he really was. Reminding _him_ of this fact always gave her a bit of satisfaction, and eased the sting of how he would always make her look like a fool at her job. He seemed to see through her sneers, and brushed them off or retaliated with something equally or more insulting, but his eyes still held the same disappointment in her that they'd held that night.

Just a few more steps...

She'd always meant to apologize one day – after all, the fight had been well over ten years ago, and as much as she hated to admit it, he _had_ been at least _partly_ right – but every time she worked up the humility and courage to, he would say something downright arrogant and infuriating, and she would decide that he didn't deserve it. It was a vicious cycle, but she'd always figured that one day, they would make peace and at least be civil to one another.

She reached the rooftop, breathless, in time to see two figures topple over the edge.

Sally was too late.


End file.
